Fun with Food

If peeky toes are clams, what are toma toes?

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‘How I scored a swell tee shirt.’

So. A friend and I were driving to a luncheon on Shelter Island (I know, I know. That sounds pretty fancy: a “luncheon.” And it was. Each summer that luncheon on Shelter Island is about as fancy as it gets. For me, anyway.)

No, this wasn’t served at that luncheon. This is a punchline sandwich

But back to that drive on Shelter Island.

My Sagaponack friend (Hi, Amy!) and I travel together to this shindig every summer. Sometimes she drives; sometimes I do. It’s actually fun to drive to Shelter Island — and even more fun if you have a friend along. You get to take a cute little ferry, for one thing.

Plus there are lots of clever signs for little oddball businesses. I used to take The Child up through Shelter Island to get to the Big Ferry at Orient Point, which was her jumping-off place to get to the train that took her back to Boston, and school. And every time I made that drive, I’d swear to stop off at this one tempting little antique/junk shop next time. (Of course, I never did. Maybe next year, hey, Amy?)

Amagansett has some pretty clever signs, too, like this one. Does this mean that farmers are surfers? Or that surfers are farmers? All I know is that their stuff is so $$$, it’s like eating wadded-up money

Anyway. This time, sure enough, clever signs. We passed one that said “Peeky Toe Clams.” Of course that sparked a few snarky remarks: “Peeky toe?!? What’s a “peeky toe?” Is it like your foot in a flip flop? Oh! I see. It’s a clam. That sort of thing. Cut us some slack. We’re two ladies driving, cracking each other up.

We didn’t need no stinkin’ farmstand when we were kids. We had Dad

Well. Right after the Peeky Toe Clam sign we see another one. This sign is white paint on a big ole piece of barn board, and it says “TOMA” on the top, and then, right below that, it says “TOES.”

So, I’m all like, “What on earth is a “toma toe?” If a “peeky toe” is a clam, I give up. What’s a “toma toe?”

And, there in the passenger seat, Amy is laughing so hard she practically activates her air bag. Finally, she gasps: “TOMATOES!!!” It’s “tomatoes!”

Oh.

A big ole platter of toma toes and mozzarella

So. Amy and I get to the luncheon, where I simply must tell this story. After all, if you can’t laugh at yourself, then you’re kind of a sorry sort, right? And besides, if I didn’t tell it, then Amy was bound to. She and I regale our table with the Toma Toe Tale. And, a few weeks later, I’m with a bunch of these same luncheon friends when I’m handed a little shopping bag with a red ribbon on the outside and a red-and-white surprise inside. (Thanks again for the tee shirt, Wendy!)

Here’s wishing all of you friends like mine — and the best end-of-season toma toes you can lay your hands on. I’m having some myself, tonight. With my ham burger.

My favorite new grilling outfit

Amagansett, New York. September 2024

The night we drank all the beer in the restaurant

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‘And there were only six of us.’

Birding is thirsty work. You can rack up a lot of miles during the course of the day, mostly on rough, steep trails. And when you get out of the vehicle to hike, you get even thirstier.

A stretch of hot empty road somewhere in the hot empty Brazilian countryside

Sometimes you hike for four or five hours — before lunch. Then, because Brazil is so goldarned hot — so hot even the birds don’t move midday — you take a break. Then you’re out for more hiking, binoculars and cameras in tow, until it’s dark. Sometimes you’re not done even then — you clamp on a headlamp, and hike around looking for nightjars and owls.

Birder Dude at the beginning of a particularly hot hike

You can drink water like crazy all day long, but when push comes to shove — and there can be quite a bit of both at those Brazilian buffets — nothing hits the thirsty spot like a nice cold beer. Oh, sometimes a caipirinha is nice, but you can polish off a Heineken (or maybe two) while they’re still mashing up all those limes or making garnishes to hang on the rims of the glasses. (Yes, one of the places did that; made little animals and flowers out of strawberries and orange slices and such. Delightful to the eye; a dreadful delay for your thirst.)

A particularly lovely pousada. They would probably put fruit animals on your caipirinha if you asked nicely

So, on a bird trip? I say bring on the beer.

Now, you must understand that I am really a Wine Girl. But on these birding trips, forget the grape. It’s hops I crave. It’s really the only time I have beer, except once in a while in the summer with a hot dog. The other drink I have on these trips is Coca Cola. Real coke, not diet. For that caffeine/sugar high. It’s the only time I drink it, and boy, is it fantastic. I swear: drinking real Coke is like unprotected sex.

Also a rush: hiking practically straight up a cliff to get to the Hooded Visorbearer, a particularly lovely — and very rare — hummingbird

But I digress.

What about drinking all the beer in the restaurant? you might reasonably be asking right about now. Well. we were in this itty bitty town called Canudos, staying at the kind of pousada that has a chain on the toilet and on the bare lightbulb fixtures too. (But delightful, mind you.) We were there because it’s literally the only place in Brazil — and the entire world — you can see the Indigo Macaw.

Another bare-bones accommodation. This one had a view of a blank wall out the one and only window. But it did have a nice shower

There are only three colonies of these bright blue birds and one of them — the only accessible one — is in a canyon a few miles from town. And yes. We found them. Got up at 4:00 in the morning to four-wheel-drive our way up into the mountains to be there at dawn when they left their nests in the holes in the sandstone cliffs.

Dawn at the sandstone cliffs to see the Indigo Macaws. Yes, there were plenty. Dude Man got photos! Stay tuned

The rest of the day passed in a heated blur of dusty birdy pursuit. The pousada didn’t serve dinner, so our guide, Marcelo, got a friend to open his restaurant just for us. It was a couple of tables on the second floor of a building in town, and we were literally the only patrons. They cooked us a special selection of fish and chicken and rice and beans, which was very good indeed. And the beer was delicious and very very cold. It went down so well that we drank every bottle they had — which was seven. (There were six of us; I can’t remember who got to have seconds, but I know it wasn’t me.)

In closing — and in further defense of beer — let me point out that Paul Newman drank a case a day. And lived to be a still-pretty-darned-gorgeous 83. Cheers!

Dude Man striding toward an empty hot gazebo. Gazebos are always empty, tho not always hot. Maybe this one has a cooler full of beer

Back in New York City. February 2024

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

Let them eat Bunny Cake

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‘An Easter treat that’s hard to beat’

I just realized that I really should have posted this story before Easter. That way you all could have whipped out your cake pans and created a bunny to dig into after your ham or lamb. (Note: we never had lamb at Easter; my mother swears it smells like “hot wet sweaters.”)

Speaking of sweaters, here’s my latest. I haven’t gotten it hot or wet, so I don’t know if it smells like lamb

Oh well, you still could “do” a bunny cake. They’re awfully fun to make, and, what with the coconut frosting and the jellybean whiskers, tasty too.

Besides, bunnies don’t really have anything to do with Easter. Not really. Bunnies and eggs were pagan fertility symbols that the early Christians appropriated; they decided they were symbols of the resurrection of Jesus. Though I have a suspicion that the real reason for “stealing” those heathen bunnies and eggs was to cheer up an inherently downer holiday. (Crown of thorns? Dying on a cross? I mean, even rising from the dead isn’t exactly cheerful.)

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Stuffing and Nonsense

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‘Nothing’s on the back burner this week’

My cart at the IGA this morning actually inspired comment from my fellow shoppers. “Wow, you sure have a lot of cooking to do!” (“That I do, that I do.”) “You must be expecting a crowd!” (“Not so many. But they’re young!”) And my favorite: “Such gorgeous short ribs. So meaty!” (Sage nod.)

What happens to 15 nice meaty short ribs. I have a batch cooling right now. This is what I serve Friday when everyone’s sick and tired of turkey

See, not only did I have a twenty-pound turkey propped up in the cart’s kiddie seat, but I had a Saran-Wrapped slab of fifteen big old beef short ribs balanced on top. The rest of the cart was filled with various and sundry: Granny Smith apples (for the pies), cranberries (for the sauce and the pies), plus breads, milks, tons of deli meats and loads of snacks to keep the Young’ns at bay. (Note: this was just the perishable stuff. I’d shopped for all the nonperishable stuff on Sunday.)

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Here’s to Mt. Fuji

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‘My favorite “Nope-I-Don’t-Eat-Sushi” Sushi Place’

I was in the Liquor Store Next To The IGA the other day, looking for my bourbon—”Hey, where’s Jim? Are you out of Jim?”—when Maureen Who Works There, after directing me to the spot on the shelf where Jim Beam now resides—”You moved Jim?”—remarked that she had recently been to Zakura.

“Zakura?”  I asked, thinking this must be some sort of Buddhist retreat or something. “What’s Zakura?” “You know,” she said. “The sushi place.”

“Oh! You mean Mt. Fuji.” Another customer in the place nodded along, “Yup, she means Mt. Fuji.”

Hungry for sushi stories? Here’s a yummy Ad World story: “Radio Days“

Maureen was actually right; the sign outside this place does indeed say “Zakura,” and has for fifteen years or so. But, before that—ages before that—it was called Mt. Fuji. And that’s what everybody who goes there still calls it, “Zakura” sign be darned.

Could this be a sign that sushi’s for dinner?

Now, Zakura/Mt. Fuji may not be the best sushi restaurant around—or maybe even the better of our family’s two fabled sushi haunts. The late, lamented Shabu Shabu, the very restaurant where The Dude and I had our first date (and where I polished off a plate of sashimi for the first—and only—time in order to impress him) was probably better. (He said he loved sashimi, so by gum I was gonna order sashimi, not actually realizing that I was about to be confronted with a whole platter of raw fish without even any rice or little wrappers to kind of mitigate it.)

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“Pop” goes the weasel

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‘My popovers? Not so much.’

First, full disclosure. The popovers portrayed in the photo at the top of this post are not of my making. They were produced by The Dude’s talented Cousin Christine, who is the daughter of the Best Cook — and Popover Maker — on the Planet Earth, Dude Man’s Aunt Eleanor.

Aunt Eleanor too busy enjoying a toast at her 90th Birthday Party to make any popovers

Why, back in the Olden Days, when I had first met The Dude, we would look forward all year to an Eleanor Christmas, when we would gobble up not only perfect popovers, but sublime roast beef accompanied by some crazy-good potato dish that was sort of like scalloped potatoes but on some whole other level of deliciousness.

(I could go on and on, but I promised I would write this post before lunch, and this is torture.)

I knew I couldn’t replicate the whole menu, but, silly me, I thought because Eleanor said that popovers were “easy” and that she “just threw them together” that I could make them too.

Dude, scanning the horizon for piping hot popovers. Er, make that piping plovers

Hah. I tried every recipe I could find, including — yes — Eleanor’s own. But my popovers flopped. They were wimpy and chewy and blech. Lucky for me, The Dude eats anything and everything so he didn’t really notice that my popovers were less than fantastic. Well, except for the time the oven caught on fire because the butter I’d greased the pan with overflowed onto the gas jets and burst into flames. That batch he noticed.

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This Christmas is going to pot (roast)

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‘It’s high time to bring back that classic.’

As I wrote in my sort-of-whiny and somewhat-navel-gazing post last week, I’ve practiced a rather opt-out attitude toward the Holidays in the past few years.

Some years my “decorating” consisted of switching the turkey napkins for the reindeer ones

I remember only too fondly and well the famous Marilyn Christmasses celebrated at my late great Gramma Peterson’s when I was a kid. Nat King Cole on the stereo. Gumdrop tree on the table. A luxurious evergreen so bushy and tall Aunt M would often have to crop it so it’d fit in the living room. (We believed her when she told us the top, complete with angel, was in the bedroom overhead.) 

A Marilyn Christmas Classic: The Cousin Lineup

After that, during Dude Man and my Early Married Years, there were the amazing Aunt Eleanor Christmasses: lobster, shrimp and, if you saved room, an incredible roast beef dinner complete with popovers. Gramma Whitmore, who made it till a week before her hundredth birthday, would hold court while Eleanor cooked, champagne glass in hand.

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Where I grew up, fish came in a stick

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‘Not that my palate is all that sophisticated now’

I had fish for dinner last night. Which means that I ate in a restaurant. (Yes, I was masked. Except when I was actually eating said fish.) See, now that I am a grownup — and a rather broken-in grownup at that — I can handle eating fish. Certain kinds of fish. Once in a blue moon. But I still can’t cook it.

Me, after having not cooked fish for dinner

See, fish was not something in my Mom’s meal rota. We had pork chops (which came with mashed potatoes and canned corn), and “Swiss Steak” (which came with mashed potatoes and peas), meat loaf (ditto), chicken (double ditto) and sometimes — because it was “good for you,” — liver (which came with creamed potatoes and green beans.)

And fish was generally not found on Midcentury Midwestern restaurant menus. I can’t remember fish appearing, like my salmon last night or my branzino last week, even in “tonight’s specials.” No, fish mostly came in a stick, battered and fried — and was primarily eaten at school lunches on Fridays as sort of a penance. Or during Lent. Ditto.

I don’t have a photo of fried fish sticks. But this one of fried chicken is much better. In many ways

In all my growing up years, I can’t recall anyone of my acquaintance — certainly not anyone in my family — saying, “Gee, Mom. Let’s have fish for supper.” No, fish was what you ate as sort of a default option.

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Nope. It doesn’t rhyme with “squish”

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‘Tasty slips of the tongue, menu edition’

Back in the Seventies, all the cool lunch spots were festooned with macrame and spider plants. Yes, back then we young working people actually left work to go to out to lunch — and not just to grab a pannini or an acai bowl to bring back to eat at our desks.

Me, in my Houlihan’s for lunch days

Nope, about mid-morning we’d run into each other at the water cooler (seriously) or, more likely, the coffee machine (which was a Mr. Coffee we all took turns filling up and turning on) and discuss where to have lunch that day. The Middle-Eastern Place with the really yummy backlava? The Vegetarian Place run by the ashram? Or maybe Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue? Most of the time we’d head to Houlihan’s Old Place.

Note: All of these places were gussied up with macrame and spider plants. (Well, except for Arthur Bryant’s. You shuffled along in line at Arthur Bryant’s and, if you were smart, ordered the barbecued sandwich, which a guy with a missing finger cut in half for you.)

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